


And They Lived Happily Ever After

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-08 19:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13464651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: MadLibs drabble for @trexrambling (Tumblr) – prompt 6: Noun, SPN Character, Adjective, Noun. Total crack humor with a smattering of fluff.





	And They Lived Happily Ever After

Your finger traces the lore book in front of you, “Okay, so it looks like we’re hunting an **English-style garden**.” **Dean** ’s head snaps up, a look of confusion on his face. You shrug, “Yeah, I know. I didn’t see that coming either. But apparently _this_ **grumpy monster** is what’s on the loose.” You grab your **pile of dynamite** off the shelf, “So let’s get hunting.”

Dean’s green eyes flare wide in alarm. He sharply kicks the slumbering Sam’s shin under the table and curses Castiel’s name under his breath – the angel has conveniently been detained on one of Heaven’s errands this last week leaving them to contend with your so-called _research project_ alone.

“Wha-what?” Sam mumbles – waking up with a wince and groan. The younger Winchester has been tuning you out for sanity’s sake this afternoon, and also because you’ve completely taxed his ability to be a soft-spoken supportive friend beyond its seemingly vast limits. His forehead and brow swirl in a vortex of fleshy bewilderment.

“Just put on your coat and shut up,” Dean warns, chucking the garment at Sam’s chiseled chest, one arm hastily shoved into the wrong sleeve of his own jacket. “You know what happened the last time.”

Sam involuntarily shudders at the memory.

“Deeeeeeeeeeeean!” you bellow through the halls of the bunker, well ahead of the brothers in winding your way to the garage. “Sam!”

Sam’s lanky legs betray him as he rushes to stand. Kneecap painfully catching on the table’s edge, his chair careens backward with a crash as he lurches forward, grasping for purchase at the unsecured contents littering the smooth mahogany surface. His clumsy grappling sends your meticulously stacked and sorted pile of lore, as you’ve taken to referring to it, fluttering to the floor. “Shit!” he curses, scrambling to catch the drifting paper while nursing his wounded knee. “Dean, a little help?” he casts a desperate pleading glance at his brother as he gathers the documents into a messy heap, attempting and failing to arrange them according to an inane filing system of your own tortuous invention. “She’s going to kill me.” Sam is practically hyperventilating, repeating himself over and over until the words run together. “Dean, she’s going to kill me!”

Dean gapes at the mess, torn between assisting Sam and heeding your beckoning call. He figures poor Sammy is a lost cause. He’s going to miss him. Best little brother ever. Standing there, he can almost feel the palpable beat of your rage thrumming the air. Sheer terror paralyzes him.

“What. The. Hell?” you rasp from the door. They dallied too long – you returned. Pile of dynamite and all tucked beneath one arm.

“It was an accident!” Sam cowers, hobbling on one leg, blatantly endeavoring in a pained limp to put the table between himself and your darkly glowering form. “I can fix it. Just-just give me a minute to-to-” Looking at the jumbled mess, he has no idea where to begin.

It’s a minute too long and you don’t have the patience for their shenanigans right now. Not over such a simple request on your part for them to join your hunt. Not when they know how important this is to you, to Cas. Eyelids snapping shut, you bite your lip, and pray, _Castiel, give me the strength not to kill these idiots!_

Dean still cannot move. His bowed legs are glued in place. He looks down at them and frowns. He never imagined this is how he would go out – mentally tortured for days on end then savagely torn to pieces by the most fearsome monster he and Sam have ever encountered – Bridezilla herself.

“Dean,” Sam whispers low, wagging his chin in your motionless direction. “Do something!”

Dean gestures in exasperation at his useless knocked limbs. From what he has seen, you have no weakness. There is no way to take you down. And your inexplicable need to carry around that damned pile of dynamite everywhere you go like a security blanket has him shook.

Sam curls an unsympathetic lip and rubs his throbbing knee.

Pure survival instinct undulates Dean’s tongue into motion. He has talked his way out of worse situations. Well, maybe not worse, but they were situations and that counts for something. “Uh, whatever happened to just getting hitched in a church? Ya know, in the eyes of God and what not.” _That’s it,_ he thinks, _sow some seeds of doubt, distract her long enough to make a break for it._ He eyes the far hall door and imagines barricading himself in the kitchen. All he needs to do is run faster than Sammy and he’s safe and sound for as long as the beer and bacon holds out. And that’s at least 12 solid hours.

You pop open one glaring eyeball. He’s not sidetracking you one bit with this doubt-and-pony show. You snort and mutter, “Nice try, Dean-o, but marrying an angel – I think that counts as being _in the eyes of God and what not_ no matter where the ceremony takes place.” You pluck a dog-eared bridal magazine from amongst the sticks of dynamite and wave it around. “Besides, according to this article, English-style gardens are the little white chapel of the new millennium.”

“I like gardens,” Castiel’s soothing gravelly voice fills the room.

You turn to the angel with a huge grin – any and all anger dispersing in his presence.

“Well-manicured green-spaces are quite quaint,” Cas elaborates, slipping an arm around your waist and leaning down to press a tender kiss to the column of your throat. He proceeds to nuzzle the sensitive skin beneath your ear, tickling you with his scruff until you melt into a fit of giggles in his embrace. Relenting, his lips brush your ear in the warm breath of a whisper, “It will be a lovely place to say our vows.”

Well okay, maybe you do have a weakness. Dean doesn’t bother mulling the fact over. The Winchesters have embarked on their hasty escape by then – Sam’s arm slung over his brother’s shoulder for support as they slowly gimp away.

Pausing at the door, ceding to his compulsion to have the last word, Dean grumbles as they disappear into the hallway, “She’s all yours, Mothra.”


End file.
